Know My Mind
by SarahSwan7
Summary: Ros joins the Section D team, 4 chapters.
1. Chapter 1

Even though intelligence work is the only career I've considered doing since my forced session with the patronising careers advisor at upper school, the thought of my first day at Section D didn't exactly fill me with delight. I would be the outsider once more, with the blood of one of their officers sort of on my hands, and probably easier to dislike than your average Henry double-barrelled smoking cigars at the thickly-curtained windows in Whitehall.

I had been told that an 8am arrival would be fine, but a night of little sleep and a desire to get the process over and done with ensured that I had devoured a black coffee, pulled on my heeled boots and marched into the Tube station little before seven. I had been to the Grid before, during the attempted coup-d'état orchestrated by my father, and so I was familiar with its location. It's far more innocuous looking than one might expect, though - obviously I hadn't anticipated a 'Secret Services Workplace – This Way!' road-sign, but it was quite an impressive old building, the complete opposite of Six's sleek base at Vauxhall Cross that I was familiar with. I abandoned the chill of the morning breeze and paced to the entrance, my appreciation of central heating instantly renewed as I stepped inside.

"Rosalind Myers," I had drawled to the security guard.

"Please surrender your bag and mobile phone for a security check," he told me efficiently.

"Is this charade really necessary?" I asked bluntly. Dealing with pushy officials is not my favourite pastime.

"If you have any weapons, I'm asking you to surrender them now," he told me in a very stern and supposedly intimidating voice. Did he honestly believe that I'd waltz into MI5 to kill a senior officer in the library with a candlestick? His ridiculously formal conduct suggested so, to the point that I considered dealing the 'don't you know who I am?' card before an interruption presented itself.

"Morning, Zaf," the other security guard called to the young man practically bounding through the doors.

"Hey, John. Long time no see. How's the missus?" He fished his ID out of his pocket and grinned.

"Oh, not too bad. Good to see you – it's a relief not to deal with ruffians all the time, mate." He cast a disapproving eye in my direction and I pointedly glared at him and his companion. Their casual use of nicknames was irritating, as was the fact that 'John' wasn't bothering to tend to his work duties. 'Zaf' appeared to be one of those insufferable types who knew just about everyone, and slathered enthusiasm and warmness on every victim that crossed his eye line. Warm, chirpy and cheeky, he was synonymous to an unruly terrier rather than a bloody MI5 officer.

"Wouldn't be so sure I'm not a ruffian, my friend," the terrier replied. "Harry Pearce used that exact phrase in reference to me after I nicked some post-its off his desk."

_Harry Pearce._ Oh, super. This sparky chap worked in the same section that I was about to join and his gaze had just moved my way, almost definitely catching my eye-roll.

"Erm, I'll leave you to it, pal," he chirped. "Enjoy the day." He sauntered over to my direction.

"Morning, Gary. Trouble?"

"Nothing I can't handle," the guard growled, finally letting the two brain cells he possessed cooperate as he passed my bag through the scanner.

"I can vouch for this lady, Gary. This is Ros Myers. New recruit to my Section. Shall I escort her up?"

Lady? Escort? The terrier suddenly seemed to be plucking phrases from an aristocratic gent in a 19th century novel. I wanted to tell him exactly where he could shove his chivalry but bit my tongue. This hadn't turned out to be the no-nonsense start to the term that I had hoped for. Being challenged by authority was something I'd always struggled with, from parents to teachers to bossy peers, and the fact that I would already be regarded with contempt following my father's actions wouldn't help matters.

"She needs ID," Gary spelled out. The terrier cocked his head to the side characteristically and smiled.

"Of course," he cooed. "Harry Pearce would be able to verbally assure you – shall I get him on the phone?"

Gary's features tightened. "Won't be necessary," he grumbled, waving us through. I noted with interest that using Harry's name seemed to work magic around here – a trick that I would be sure to utilise.

"I'm Zaf," the terrier yapped at my heels.

I didn't bother replying.

"Do you want me to show you around sometime, Ros?"

I turned on my heel. "I wasn't aware that this was a bloody middle school induction day, Zaf."

He frowned slightly. "Okay. Have it your own way." He made his way to the lift and prodded a button, the doors snapping shut.

Shit. Marching onto the Grid with no idea where I was supposed to sit or what work I was supposed to complete could be hideously embarrassing. Plus, the humiliation of my father's betrayal had made me bitter, my defence mechanism of cruel quips coming into play more often, and so it was unlikely that I'd make any chums to show me the ropes.

Also, I was not elated at the idea of seeing Adam Carter again, seeing as the last time I had encountered him had resulted in me crying, fully and humiliatingly. The more I think about it, the more horrified I feel. At first I tried to cut myself some slack – the fate of my father was about to tear my family apart – but I should have handled the situation better. If crying had been absolutely necessary, I should have at least had the decency to do it in private.

As I impatiently waited for the lift to return I pulled out my phone, scrolling through the contacts. He was saved under Daddy because I previously adored and respected him. Now it seemed pathetic and childish, and I could hear Adam's voice mocking me, calling me 'daddy's little girl.' I removed the name, ready to re-enter with 'Father' before realising it didn't matter. I efficiently clicked delete.

"Good morning," someone said suddenly: Harry. He was smiling, one eyebrow raised.

"Not lost already, I hope?" He spoke gently but the tiny knowing smile he shot felt patronising enough for me to summon a cold reply.

"Nope. Just checking I've got the relevant phone numbers for the new job. Three nine's for danger, isn't it?" I dropped my phone into my bag and met his gaze with a sardonic smile.

Harry looked somewhat bewildered at my response, pressing the lift button again and studying the floor. Perhaps he thought I would be a completely submissive officer, humbled by my run-in with the law and quietened by the speculations about my father's imprisonment.

But if anything, the last few weeks have renewed my determination to prove myself.

...

My desk was close to the ter- Zaf's. A tiny chip of a conscience instructed that I should apologise – it had the voice of my childhood friend, Miranda. She was a right goody-goody two shoes with the posh voice and mummy and daddy to prove it – then again, I did too, but with a streak of recklessness thrown into the gene pool. Still, I had usually been able to coax her into trouble and likewise she had made an indelible impression on my own morals, despite my insistence to suppress her influence. My own arrogance and stubbornness ensure that I want to make my own decisions all the time with no outside help, and making new friends was so low down on my priorities list that it wasn't even worth mentioning. But if I wanted to be successful in this workplace, I would have to strike up alliances. These people are well connected, well trained and clever – they may well be useful to me later in life. I had been unnecessarily dismissive of Zaf's offer of help, despite being genuinely appreciative of it.

"I was out of order." The words felt wooden and lacked any real sincerity. Zaf dragged his eyes from the computer screen to my face and he raised his eyebrows.

"I was short with you earlier." I coughed. This was thoroughly uncomfortable – I decided to brazen it out. "I don't want any bad feeling seeing as we're going to be working together. I'd rather be professional. Touché?"

That tiny trademark smile made its way onto his mouth. "Touché, Ros."

"And if that offer of a guided tour still stands, I'd appreciate it," I added, even conjuring up a small smile. Being the new girl and being looked down on was a poisonous enough combination without the addition of wandering around Thames House like a headless chicken. I wanted to get to grips with my new workplace as soon as possible, and having someone to assist me in achieving that objective would be advantageous.

"It's a date," Zaf responded with a wink, to which I responded with an eye roll. "Welcome to the Grid," he grinned.

"Glad to be on board," I replied, watching him gather papers in his arms and head through a set of doors veering off from the main work area.

I promptly located the predictably crummy office kitchen and made myself a piping mug of coffee. The gaudy neon smiley face clock on the wall (which I prayed was purchased either ironically or drunkenly) told me that it was just approaching nine. I wondered of the whereabouts of other colleagues – I anticipated that my mysterious recruiter Adam would put in an appearance sooner or later. He seemed the happy-go-lucky type but with the skill and charm of an intelligence officer drummed into his bones. At this hour he was probably still asleep in an anonymous hotel with a female in tow, same clothes chucked over a chair somewhere and with no grooming other than a hand scraped through the hair in order to fashion himself into an attractive spy.

_He's not James bloody Bond, Myers, and you don't do speculation,_ I scolded myself. Then again, it was always somewhat amusing to suss people out beforehand and then watch my imaginations play out before my very eyes. I've always been spookily accurate at judging a person's character.

The thud of footsteps broke my trance as an older man paced into the kitchen and flicked on the kettle, his eyes fixed on the floor. I recognised him from my second visit to the Grid – he was providing evidence of my father's betrayal, but I didn't know his name. For a brief moment I thought of introducing myself before realising I wasn't exactly the chatty, girl-guide type, and he of course knew exactly who I was. I highly suspected that his obvious grief stemmed from the murder of one of their colleagues; an unfortunate repercussion of the plot I got entangled in, and so it would be inappropriate of me to offer my condolences. I left the kitchen and plunked my coffee on my desk, rigging up the computer before me.

...

My first day had passed without any serious setbacks, although Gary the security guard shot me a particularly vitriolic look on my way out in the evening. The team were close-knit, as Harry had said, to the point of mild annoyance. There wasn't a second where they weren't offering to make a round of tea or calling out each other's first names as a way of summoning or asking if anyone needed a lift home. I almost wished for some atrocity to happen just so they'd all snap back into chilling efficiency.

As for the team members individually, I had worked with worse. Harry was the boss and no-one seemed to question his judgement. He was wise, but knew when to bend the rules a little, which make me respect him. Too often are bosses snooty and detached from their team – Harry was the polar opposite.

Zaf was the typical office joker who was probably born seeking female attention and completely blind to the fact that not every woman fell head over heels for his alleged 'charms'. That said, he was quick-witted and clearly a skilled officer. I would forgive his flirtatiousness: for now. He had also been the first person to attempt to befriend me, and despite our slightly shaky start I could tell that he was a decent guy whose company I wouldn't resent.

Ruth Evershed was a middle-aged, fiercely loyal and ridiculously intelligent analyst with enough of what I call 'moral maturity' to rile me. She seemed to be the team member who injected lethal amounts of humanity into the operation, always looking out for the underdog and the first to call someone up on their lack of regard for individual lives. My stance has always been of the greater good, which doesn't make me heartless but operationally focussed enough to realise that you have to consider the most favourable outcome for the masses. She had been taunting me with Adam during the coup, talking about my father's link to the Russian mafia and his involvement in the plane crash, and so I naturally wanted as little to do with her as possible. I imagine we have little in common anyway, perhaps other than shopping at the same coat shop. It was also blatantly obvious that she harboured an irrevocable affection for Harry, although I doubt she has sufficient courage to act upon her feelings.

Joanna Portman was suitably naive for a junior officer and was obviously bright but lacked enough backbone for my liking. I assumed she was new to the role of a spy but she was clearly appreciated by her other workers, an affection she returned abundantly. She doted on Adam and his effortless skill, chatted with Ruth on coffee breaks, offered to help Malcolm with surveillance. Her respect for Harry was evident and she was the only one who didn't rebuff Zaf's flirtatiousness with a sarcastic comment or withering look. Jo was the girl that everyone wanted to be friends with, which automatically made her someone that I wanted to avoid.

The miserable man I had encountered in the kitchen was Malcolm, best friend of the murdered colleague. He was the techie, which meant I thankfully wouldn't have to associate with him much, but it appeared that he was humble but scarily intelligent with a heart bigger than Harry's ostentatious leather desk chair.

Adam, however much it pained me to admit, I had got completely wrong. One of Jo's merits was her loose tongue; it was a generally annoying trait, but her chattiness paid off in discovering more about my new colleagues. Adam had been the happy-go-lucky charmer once upon a time, but his wife had been killed little under a year ago and he had since been struggling to come to terms with her death. He was now a single parent battling personal traumas as well as professional difficulties. When Jo told me all of this I almost felt pity for him: as sob stories go, it was a particularly vicious one. Then again, Adam was still living and breathing and working for the Service, so he must be dealing with his emotions in one way or another with a relative degree of success.

However, he'd tried to be chatty. Lethal mistake. He even asked how I was 'generally' following my crying session. I made it perfectly clear that approaching the topic again would most likely result in me battering him to death with my lever arch folder.

At least I'd now be able to get my teeth into some proper work - Zaf had been sent undercover to set Operation Waterfall in motion and we'd need sufficient time to get him trusted and in the right group. I usually loathe waiting but in this scenario I was thankful – it gave me ample opportunity to play catch-up and so when Adam started mentioning Waterfall mysteriously I had the upper hand. Those next few weeks had also allowed me to slip under the radar a little. It seemed I'd disposed of my sign spelling out 'Traitor' fastened like rope around my neck and was finally just seen as one of them, albeit the moody one who goes to the roof at lunchtimes and takes her coffee black, and no she wouldn't like a bloody chocolate digestive.

Zaf was now well and truly accepted as a team member of the terrorist cell we had infiltrated and it had been a textbook operation until the ringleader shot dead an innocent. Ruth suggested it was an attempt to flush out infiltrators and I felt momentarily uneasy. Of course, they had dealt with previous similar operations and had sufficiently backstopped Zaf's legend which he'd learnt off by heart, but the thing about rogues and miscreants and terrorists is that they're unpredictable. If they weren't, we'd be able to intervene and stop them. But the opposition is often a lot cleverer these days, and so MI5 have to step up their game.

I hadn't been watching the screens of the CCTV at the warehouse but was close enough to eavesdrop. Zaf had valiantly attempted to save the other man's life without getting himself killed, but the ringleader Hanif hadn't hesitated to put a bullet in the head of the environmental worker whom he'd murdered just to prove a point. Unfortunately, people all too often find it necessary to spell out a point in blood.

After the potential fiasco had been averted, Zaf and his new friends sloped off to the flat and Jo helpfully spelled out the operation for me in the Meeting Room. It appeared that Adam didn't anticipate that I had common sense enough to do some legwork regarding the current operation on which I would be working. I made it quite clear to Jo that I was well aware of the homework and would be more than capable of completing it, and then she delegated me the task of babysitting Zaf. That stung. I have done something a little more senior. Taking status reports from an agent in the field is obviously a pivotal part of any operation, but something that Jo was more than capable of. Why was I being given the tasks that a junior officer could easily handle? Then again, I hadn't been informed of any official ranking and so it appeared I would have to prove myself before being given any more arduous operational responsibilities. I hit a nerve when enquiring why Jo herself couldn't babysit her little friend and now suspect another potential office romance brewing, God help me.

At least meeting Zaf would give me the opportunity to get out of the Grid and avoid Adam's attempts at niceties. He was obviously trying to patch up our somewhat severed relationship following my father's treason and the tacky seduction routine I had carried out, including the unfortunate coincidence that I wear the same perfume as his dead wife. He didn't believe me that it was a mere coincidence, of course, and although I can't deny that it significantly aided my get-out clause I wouldn't have done something so vulgar. Despite my relief that he finally seemed to have accepted the idea that I didn't intentionally drag up memories of his beloved wife, I was utterly uninterested in associating with Adam on anything other than work matters. I would attempt to be civil, but he was making it rather bloody difficult at the moment.

...

Zaf definitely looked worse for wear. It would have been tough for him to watch that guy get his brains blown out and then have to sit and smile with the people responsible, but he'd been thoroughly professional about the whole thing, even telling me his cover was still intact when I had been enquiring about his personal wellbeing. I tried to push the topic to show I actually cared but he swiftly moved onto operational details. I threw him a bone and allowed his choice of conversation.

Our chit-chat was two minutes at most, but that was substantial time for me to make my judgements. Bright, attentive and quick-witted, Zaf certainly knew what he was doing. Trouble was, this bunch was nasty and their plans were advancing a little too quickly for our liking.

I swept away after telling Zaf that he did the right thing, leaving him to head back to the flat. It was a crummy place and he'd had to neglect his fondness for dressing sharply with considerable distress, but it was clear that he flourished in undercover work. Even I, trained to spot the mistakes of others, couldn't fault his performance. Any intelligence officer worth their salt possesses some acting ability, but some are considerably better than others.

I was then tasked with bringing in and questioning our main man Michael's ex-fiancée, Leigh Bennett. It was evident from the start that she was an intelligent young woman, with guts enough to pull off a little undercover work combined with the necessary looks and charm to win back her old flame. It would have run like clockwork had she not disobeyed my orders to avoid the flat. She was stabbed to death by a suspicious flatmate, whom Michael promptly beat the shit out of before cradling Leigh's body, a suspected terrorist reduced to a broken man through the bloodshed of someone he loved.

In the midst of all that, Jo got herself attacked by a brute called Iain Kallis who was involved in the sale of the thermobaric bomb. She had been playing along well until she made excuses to leave and he slapped her round the face, before attempting to strangle her. Adam and I had found her before Kallis snapped her neck: she looked traumatised but would recover. I thought the fact that I saved her life would mean that she treated me a little better, but she was being annoyingly sensitive about Leigh Bennett, blaming me for making a wrong call for using her. Ultimately, it was not the wrong call – she got us vital intelligence and earned the trust of Michael which Zaf could later use. It was regrettable that this caused a civilian casualty, but sometimes it happens. I'm not emotionally incontinent, but nor do I lack genuine feeling. I've just had enough experience not to cry over the deceased any more.

Zaf came back to the Grid late last night, looking exhausted and in need of a decent shower. When I told him as much, he conjured up a small smile.

I'm glad that he didn't end up stabbed, or shot, or blown to smithereens. As colleagues go, he's a decent one.

...

**A/N: I played with the timeline of this a little – I wanted to explore Ros' integration to the team before moving onto Operation Waterfall instead of having that as her first day as seen on screen. 'In the library with a candlestick' is a reference to the detective game 'Cluedo' - potentially a favourite board game of the Spooks! If you have a minute, a review would be very welcome :)**


	2. Chapter 2

When Harry debriefed us about the Addressing Africa Summit and our operation at Havensworth Hotel in Berkshire, I automatically winced. I enjoy the work that I get to do as a member of Section D but working all day and night with the team for three days was a guaranteed way for me to turn insane, particularly as I'm currently involved in a financial and emotional mess with my mother. She doesn't want to sell the family home; I think we should. Then again, throughout my childhood she hardly ever paid attention to what I said, so why would she now?

On the plus side, this operation would be a new project to keep my mind ticking over. I was to assume the role of Deborah Soames, the summit organiser. This also meant that I got the chance to buy a new outfit or two. Shopping can be a tiresome pursuit, but when you can purchase expensive office-wear and have the bill footed by HR it's certainly worth indulging in.

Malcolm, Ruth and Jo were staying at the Grid, and they were offered kind goodbyes from the rest of their colleagues. I, however, faked a phone call and scarpered, jumping into a taxi alone. I would be like the odd relative at a family gathering, the one everyone is reluctant to embrace. The feeling was entirely mutual and so escaping as efficiently as possible was my most favourable option.

Havensworth Hotel was enormous, suitably reclusive and posh for such an affair and absolutely swarming with officials. Thankfully, none of them turned out to be the intellectual equivalent of Thames House's Gary the guard, and I was quickly given a key to my own suite. I had dreaded the very notion of a team sleepover and so being granted my own private breathing space was a small mercy.

Harry rung me upon arriving shortly after I did and we all gathered in the suite booked for our operational investigations. Adam grabbed some chocolate and Pringles from the mini fridge and passed them around, causing me to realise with disappointment that I had forgotten to pack my own supply of food. Any form of nourishment provided in hotels, as a general rule, is either over-greasy or over-priced. I had got into the habit of taking a stash of essentials on any hotel trip, including my own favourite brand of coffee granules, some light snacks and, in the face of a particularly difficult operation, a bottle of vodka. I declined the offer of a barbeque Pringle when the tub made its way to me, making a mental note to find the hotel's restaurant and order a quick bite. I had no time to do so, however, being summoned by Reception to greet the delegates who were about to arrive.

I slapped on a smile and began to chat to Emile Becker, the French finance minister, who was apparently spineless enough to cave in to our demands if we applied appropriate pressure. On the other hand, Trainor Styles, the US secretary for trade, could be problematic. I laid the flattery on thick when conversing with him but he was a slippery character. I got the feeling that he wouldn't bend to any pressure.

When all of the delegates had left their possessions in their rooms they were called for drinks and light refreshments in the breakfast lounge before the talks commenced. I thought this would be the best opportunity to relieve my famished stomach – however, Zaf caught me eyeing up the nibbles and shook his head sternly before grabbing a crisp himself with a wink. Being on the catering team, he had easy access to the snacks. Bloody Younis. I'd get him back later.

Eventually everyone piled into the room and the chatter began, giving me ample time to make my observations. Adam was chatting away to someone whose name he had probably already saved to his memory database. Harry was making small talk with the Foreign Sec – both were wearing pained expressions and I knew for a fact that Harry held little liking for the man, and it was highly probable that the feeling was mutual. Zaf was preparing coffee with two young female waitresses and was evidently enjoying every second.

I 'introduced' myself to Adam and we discussed the issues with Styles. We'd need to gain access to his suite to figure out how to make him sign the agreement. His security was predictably tight and we'd have to tread carefully – if an important figure even suspected MI5 manipulation rather than mere protection the whole operation could some crashing down. Zaf had already attempted to make first contact, posing as a helpful newspaper boy, but he got turned away at the door. I felt confident in the knowledge that Malcolm would be on the case right now, figuring out an inventive and untraceable way to get to Styles.

I then opened the talks, smiling widely, before disappearing back to Reception and finally locating some lunch. It appeared that the negotiations were proving successful until Styles had been taken ill, which we all knew was bullshit. He was planning something; something that I was keen to uncover.

The problem with pretending to be best friends with someone that you've just met is that you have to feign interest in whatever they like. If their credit card records say they've bought a new CD, you tell them about how much you love that particular singer. If you find a cinema ticket stub in their pocket, you pretend that you've seen the film. To do all of this effectively, we had to carry out some serious surveillance.

Operations like the one at Havensworth are designed to run like clockwork. This keeps relationships healthy for future negotiations and prevents the media from writing some spiel about how a raised eyebrow from one delegate to another is blatantly indicative of international difficulties. These sorts of agreements are based on keeping up appearances: from the summit organiser to the toilet cleaner, everyone has to play their part, say the right things, act in the right way. Suspicion already exists prolifically in political agreements, and we couldn't afford to add to that.

So, for the week or so that followed the Foreign Secretary's permission for us to conduct our operation we swotted up on those attending and tested each other. Ruth, Jo and Malcolm who were staying on the Grid gave us a ruthless quiz to complete – failure to achieve full marks resulted in that person doing the washing up until the operation was over. Zaf had been the one to crack, swearing good-naturedly as he missed out one letter in the name of the Russian representative's daughter. Something about the whole pretence felt tiring and unnecessary, but I was later grateful for Ruth's insistence that we learnt more about these people than they knew themselves.

Trainor Styles was on the board of governors for the Kansas City Flamers. What a coincidence, that Deborah Soames spent three years in Kansas studying business management and saw every game. Styles would be eating out of the palm of my hand. But the fact that he promptly closed the lid of his laptop upon my arrival told me he was hiding something - I knew that this would be the key to confirming the American signature on the deal, but I couldn't afford to be too intrusive. Styles' laptop could wait until tomorrow.

...

It had been a hectic enough day with important figures tiptoeing across fraying political tightropes and mistrust so thick in the air it practically crackled with electric unspoken grudges. Who in their right mind would throw a bloody party?

The Italian trade minister, according to Ruth. I'd heard her chit-chatting to Harry in the corridor through the thin walls of my room. It had been a brief, emotionless exchange and yet it was so bloody obvious that they were longing to spend time in each other's company. Harry had been acting chivalrous recently and walking taller than usual, whereas Ruth blushed a delicate pink whenever his eyes grazed in her direction. She had asked to remain on the Grid for the duration of our stay at Havensworth, presumably to keep her distance from him and hopefully dispel the office rumours of their relationship that were beginning to circulate. However, Harry had requested her attendance, making something up about needing her organisation (when he knew perfectly well that he, Zaf, Adam and I could cope) when he really just wanted to spend some time with her. It was so pathetic how they kept scurrying around each other that I was half tempted to just book them a table at the nearest romantic restaurant with Lionel Richie on the sound system and let them get on with it. As a general rule I don't care one bit about the personal lives of other people, but when certain people make their attractions so glaringly obvious in the work place it becomes difficult to ignore.

Anyway, the Italian trade minister was throwing a party and I was thoroughly pissed off because of his incredibly poor taste in music and the fact that all of his guests were probably enjoying a hefty helping of alcohol, whereas I had salvaged a coffee of appalling quality here and there (staff weren't treated to the Finest granules that the guests were offered) but little else. I considered heading to the bar by myself for some wine and maybe a packet of crisps, but thankfully I realised how tragic that would be before I acted on it. Instead I returned to Reception, where I received a phone call from my mother. She explained that we had an offer on our family home and I urged her to take it – frankly we needed the money to pay off my father's legal fees.

I was interrupted by a message from housekeeping, detailing that the Americans were planning to sabotage the summit, using it as a cover for a major industrial sale to Japan. This was obviously a game changer, and told me that tomorrow would ensure that this agreement was about to get a lot more complicated that I initially thought possible.

...

The next morning the application of pressure upon Becker ensured he was the second item on the six o'clock news, along with a front-page story entitled 'My Passion For Africa'. Sneaky bastard – he had no intention of signing the deal, but would cover it up and use the American and Japanese's refusal as his excuse. Adam's tactic of getting a classroom-full of black children to clamber on Becker and cheer his name with cameras clicking left right and centre, although cunning, may not have had the effect we were hoping for in the face of the Americans' back-stabbing. On that topic, the arrival of a Kansas City Flamers DVD at reception jolted my plan into action. I headed to Styles' suite; he was delighted at the customer care he was receiving, putting the disc in his laptop and inviting me to join him. Styles was oblivious to the fact that Malcolm had embedded a software spider onto the disc which would download all of his files. I patted his knee and shot another mega-watt smile before leaving, despite feeling a little nauseous at being in his presence.

The access we now had to Styles' laptop exposed the existence of Global Cordon, the network through which the American government were secretly selling state of the art weaponry to countries bordering with major US enemies. They had vehemently denied its existence when questioned, and the fact that we now had solid proof could be the bargaining chip we needed to get the Americans to sign. James Allan contacted the Prime Minister who threatened to expose the existence of Global Cordon, giving the Whitehouse time to consider their response. Harry suggested that everyone tried to get some rest but after unsuccessfully grasping sleep thanks to my inability to escape insomnia unless drugged in a hospital somewhere or in my own bed, I paced to the shared suite, remembering the whisky supply tucked away on a table somewhere that Harry had probably requested. Seeing as it was nearly 4am, I anticipated being alone and getting ample time to devour the drink in peace. I was therefore surprised to see Adam there. His exhaustion was written visibly in his slumped shoulders, loosened tie and heavy eyelids, but he cradled a glass of the whisky and looked perfectly content to tackle the hour. He greeted me upon my arrival and by the time he offered me a drink it was probably too late to sneak away. I had hoped to be alone, but I was beginning to appreciate Adam's company. I never thought that after my tacky ritual of seducing him that he'd ever forgive me, let alone try to be friends with me. I was grateful that he seemed to have chosen to forget the whole thing and focus on working together effectively, and despite difficult moments (which were inevitable considering our competitiveness) I was beginning to see the side of Adam Carter that everyone else adored.

But soon after he poured me a whisky I stupidly started talking about my family, the struggles with selling the house, dealing with my father's imprisonment, and I didn't realise how much of my current and hopefully short-lived vulnerability I had actually revealed until it was far too late. I coolly made a toast to insomnia and was ready to make my excuses to leave when the call to Styles came through. It was 4am – it was unlikely to be a chat about the weather. It confirmed the fear that we had been trying to prevent: maybe the Americans were backing down.

The next morning there was no sign of the Americans or the Japanese; we were becoming increasingly uneasy. I wasn't going to have endured a night away from the comfort of my own flat, being referred to as 'excuse me' and being denied a decent cup of coffee for the past forty eight hours for them to make it all count for nothing. When the Japanese representatives appeared I gave them a hearty good morning welcome, and for the Americans, singling out Styles with a smile. James Allen, standing across the foyer, employed similar complimentary tactics for which I viewed him with a little respect for the first time since our encounter.

Everyone attended the talks and it appeared that the shaky start had levelled out to a smooth ride until Jo issued a Red Call. A leading opposition politician in West Monrassa called Solomon Kabate was caught by MI6 discussing the 'Havensworth Operation' on tape, involving the assassination of Sekoa. This was clearly an attempt to prevent any other African presidents from attempting negotiations with Western countries again for fear of getting similarly murdered, and our 24/7 media culture would ensure mass publicity and mass hysteria. Ruth did some digging and found that Solomon Kabate had visited London recently, going to a bar and doing little else. After contacting the bar we were able to establish that they used agency staff, as we had done for the smooth-running of this operation. An evacuation was ordered of all agency staff (Zaf included) and they were driven away from the hotel.

Despite our precautions, the press conference that James Allen organised against Harry's orders nearly ended catastrophically. A waitress called Michelle Lopez had left her cell phone (and therefore Diaspora, Malcolm's wonder-tracker) in the bag of her friend so that she could remain in the hotel unnoticed. She then changed clothes, armed herself with a pistol and headed to the conference in an attempt to shoot Gabriel Sekoa. Adam managed to disarm her whilst I created a distraction that involved me clumsily dropping a large tray. Slightly humiliating, but needs must.

After intensive interrogation and research, we discovered that Michelle Lopez was actually called Baptiste Kadala and wanted to assassinate Sekoa on the grounds that he was planning an attack against the people of West Monrassa, her home. She also believed that Sekoa killed her parents in what was staged to be a plane crash but was actually a missile attack.

If her allegations were correct we were now in seriously scalding waters. If the negotiations were sorted out nice and neatly, there'd be a shot of Sekoa and our Foreign Sec on the front page of every major newspaper in the country - if Sekoa then proceeded to kill thousands of people we could hardly condemn his actions after previously appearing so pally.

Adam's solution was to allow Baptiste to kill Sekoa. He presented us with classified West Monrassan files detailing the military operation, exactly what Baptiste had warned us about. Jo dug up intelligence that confirmed Baptiste's theory of the missile hitting her parents' plane. Harry was insistent that we couldn't just 'play God' and that if MI5 were found out to be involved in his death we would all go to prison, but Adam convinced him in the end. We armed her, and pretended she had escaped our detention. She shot Sekoa dead and we dealt with the situation calmly, as if we were completely blameless for the incident. It would have worked a treat until the Foreign Secretary ordered for Baptiste to be shot dead despite the fact that she had no weapon. To him, it was about keeping up appearances and staying in control. To Baptiste, she was defending the rights of her people and seeking justice for her dead parents. Then again, she wasn't a political figure in the limelight. Just a life. Just an inconvenience for James Allan. Something that could easily be remedied by a bit of bloodshed.

Adam was livid and hysterical at the same time. It was distressing to watch him in such a state, and later when we had cleared out of the hotel he didn't say a word to anyone, his face a mask of cool indifference with a hint of anger bubbling behind the surface. I wondered whether to approach the topic but soon realised that Adam wasn't the type who wanted attention drawn to whatever personal problems he was handling, and I respected that. I let him take a taxi alone, hopping into one with Harry, ready to be taken back to the somewhat normality that Thames House was beginning to provide for me.

...

Harry and James Allan had an unfriendly-looking chat back at Thames House - unfortunately, Harry's office is sound-proofed and so we couldn't hear the undoubtedly vicious squabble between the pair. The vast glass wall allowed us to observe Harry playing something from a Dictaphone and Allen shutting up before leaving hastily, thanking us all for our efforts on his way out. I imagine James Allan has never apologised for anything in his life: Harry must have obtained some substantial dirt on him.

After Allan dragged his unwelcome presence from our working environment, Adam practically sprinted to the pods. The death of Baptiste Kadala had obviously got to him, and considering the circumstances in which his wife had been killed and the almost identical events that had occurred this afternoon it was hardly surprising.

Most of the team sloped off soon after due to Harry's advice of them getting some rest after the operation, but I had some paperwork to get done and wanted to finish the loathsome chore sooner rather than later. I didn't anticipate that it would take me almost three hours, and only when my mobile phone rang did I notice how late the hour had turned. The anonymous voice at the end of the phone told me that my father's application for leniency had been turned down.

I was livid.

Harry had promised to pull some strings, and for someone of his rank it would have been an easy task. Even if it would have been problematic, he should have just told me it wasn't possible. Obviously it would have been difficult for me to take, but at least that way he wouldn't be giving me false hope. On top of that, he'd told Adam before the operation, saying he needed me to stay focussed. Stay bloody focussed? Was that what he was worried about? My operational abilities would never get diminished by any personal concern, no matter how serious, and the way Harry had treated me with such contempt made my blood boil.

After giving him a considerable piece of my mind I promptly left his office and headed straight to my flat. I got a call from Adam on my mobile but promptly pressed 'Decline'. That bastard. We had drunk whisky together and talked together and he had been lying through his teeth, the same teeth that I now held a strong desire to knock out with my knuckles. He had probably enjoyed it too, watching my raw pain that for once I was bloody stupid enough to reveal, smirking behind my back and sharing all with his colleagues. Then again, he would have been told by Harry. It was at Harry that I directed the full force of my anger.

I never apologise. And Harry had been completely out of order, telling Adam before telling me about my own bloody father. Did he think I was too weak to cope with the news and juggle operational imperatives? Did he want to confide in Adam so that together they could have one up on me, to pay me back for the attempted coup that I got caught up in?

"_Forgive and forget, Rosalind."_ I can almost hear my mother's condescending tone upon hearing that I'd hit a pupil for bad-mouthing me, or attacked a sibling if they laid a finger on my possessions.

But I was wise enough to know that that attitude wouldn't ever be appropriate when working with spies. We're made up of carefully arranged lies. Some are more intricate than others, but they all have the same effect: killing any trace of trust you may have felt.

I do not intend to forgive Harry for this, not unless he makes it expressly clear that he regrets what he did.

...

**A/N: This one was a bit more episode-focussed, but the next chapter will reveal Ros' true feelings about Ruth's departure... Please review if you have a second :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: It appears that every single Harry & Ruth fan despised Ros in 5.5, but I think it's about time we heard it from her perspective...**

Since our return from Havensworth our workload slowed considerably. Maybe it was the never-ending rain that dissuaded fanatic pressure groups from marching, or the fact that a new series of Celebrity Big Brother had grabbed the attention of seemingly most of the nation, but whichever way I was content with the pleasant change of a lighter atmosphere.

One of our key suspects for planning a break-in at a weapons facility had been apprehended early yesterday evening and we were all planning to head out for a celebratory drink. However, a major power-cut was zipping its way across London and we were caught up in it. The trouble with secure buildings such as Thames House is that even the slightest power insecurity can send the entire system into turmoil, sealing it off from the outside world lest an attack was commencing. This would have been easy for Malcolm to remedy but he had taken a day's holiday to visit his mother who had been ushered to hospital earlier in the week. We were therefore stranded as inferior IT technicians attempted to battle the problem, informing us that we'd be able to leave the building in what they hoped to be a couple of hours.

My initial feeling was dread: sitting around with my colleagues isn't how I like to spend my evenings. Besides, The George's closing time was fast approaching and I was determined not to miss it. Alcohol was a solution to my anger that I was utilising often at the moment. The memory of Adam lying to my face about my father; Harry's pathetic apology. Each time either of them sprung into my head I reached for a bottle.

Zaf pulled a deck of cards from his desk drawer and bullied Ruth and Jo into playing a game. I happened to catch his eye and he gestured for me to join. My initial impulse was to decline, but I had nothing else to do to kill the time and so I manoeuvred my swivel chair to his desk as he deftly dealt the deck. He briefly explained the rules of a game I hadn't heard of but it was easy enough to pick up. I lost several times in a row, but on about the fourth round I began to get the gist and started employing some strategy. Soon afterwards Zaf suggested playing for money and the notion of winning was irresistible - I dug my purse out from my bag but was confident I wouldn't need it.

Jo and Zaf lost early on – Jo taking the defeat with good grace, Zaf sulking – and I was faced with a vicious head-to-head with Ruth who was surprisingly skilled. She was incredibly knowledgeable but I imagined her forte to be naming historical figures rather than winning card games. She presented her hand with a flourish: four Kings. She'd won.

"Well played, Ruth," I said good-naturedly, handing over the twenty pound note from my purse.

"Thanks. No-one ever expects analysts to know their way around a deck of cards, but my father taught me every trick in the book."

The word 'father' almost made me recoil, but I knew Ruth didn't mention it deliberately. I offered a smile.

"There's a talent to add to your never-ending list."

She blushed slightly, and I hoped she didn't think I was being sarcastic or cruel. Her and I would never be best friends, but she wasn't as awful as I may have previously labelled her.

"I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm starving. I think I'll put this to good use and go to the canteen," Ruth declared, rising from her seat. Only the main entrance was providing difficulties; we could still access the other floors. I was glad for the offer – the measly pasta salad I had consumed at lunch felt like a very long time ago.

Ruth was passing round sandwiches and Zaf was dealing the cards again when Harry came out of his office. He had been hiding away with the excuse of catching up on correspondence, but my bet was that his card playing abilities are poor and he wanted to avoid a beating from his colleagues.

"I'm just had a call. There's word of a fire having broken out in Cotterdam prison."

"Anyone hurt?" Ruth enquired.

"Too soon to tell, but seeing as Cotterdam houses some key terror suspects I suspect it'll be on our briefing at some point," Harry informed us gravely, before posing a question. "Where's Adam?"

"Said he had to make some calls," Jo offered, before checking her watch. "But that was over an hour ago."

A frown flitted across Harry's face and I caught it before he dismissed it.

"Reception also called. They estimate our lockdown will end in about ten minutes. I know this probably isn't how any of you wanted to spend your evening, but thank you for your patience."

"I assume we're rescheduling our celebratory drink?" Zaf asked hopefully.

"Yes, Zaf, we will organise an appropriate time for a liquid lunch, fear not," Harry reassured him, barely suppressing an eye roll at his colleague's insistence for alcohol.

Harry marched back to his office, and as promised a phone call alerted us that the main entrance was now operational and to apologise for any inconvenience caused. I was relieved to be able to return home, but the evening hadn't been as hellish as I anticipated. If someone had told me a year ago that I'd have to spend an extra minute with my colleagues (let alone an hour) I would have seriously considered resigning, killing someone, or leaving the country. But life in Section D was different; I actually appreciated the company. Not excessively, though. And the night had passed mercifully without me having to interact with neither Harry nor Adam, whom I still regarded with cold contempt.

I pushed aside my hatred for a little while, collapsing onto my bed. Tomorrow was set to be the busiest day we'd had for a while, and getting a few hours of sleep wouldn't do any harm.

...

The Cotterdam incident had been handed over to Special Branch, and so when Adam started briefing us about it two weeks after the fire had broken out I knew something must have happened. The Special Branch report concluded that it was an accident, but it was so marvellously convenient that the only people killed were seven major terror suspects from a terror group called Acts of Truth. They had caused chaos in the past with massive bomb blasts, and so someone may have deemed it justifiable to kill them off with blatant disregard to any intelligence they may have held. We now had to conclude what exactly happened and under whose orders, reversing the fiction that the Special Branch report had woven.

There was also the Mik Maudsley conundrum: he was the head of security for Cotterdam and had committed suicide earlier today, taking the coward's way out and leaving us to scrabble around to find out what he knew about Cotterdam. I was adamant to discover what was so awful about what had really happened that Maudsley had killed himself over it.

Adam instructed Zaf and I to access Cotterdam's security records to find out who visited the prison on the night of the fire. I was glad to be told that Zaf would be my back-up rather than Jo, who still looked permanently terrified of me - I don't envisage a particularly strong relationship, professional or personal, emerging between the two of us. Equipped with some steel glasses and a charcoal business suit, I assumed the role of permanently-pissed-off IT inspector Angela Webster. She and I seemed to share many personality traits: efficiency, disapproval of others, ruthlessness. Zaf played the part of incompetent assistant and I jumped at the chance to berate him, a tiny smile passing invisibly between us. Fortunately, the worker who accompanied us was naive enough to buy my sudden asthma attack, although at least he had the professionalism to log off the computer first lest we try to access its files or perform any other such misdemeanour. Thankfully, the password was set as the governor's initials. Malcolm would have shuddered at the inadequacy of the security.

We cut it fine but got all of the files we needed, Zaf milking the excuse that I would need some fresh air as we got the hell out of there, all the information we wanted safe on a memory stick hidden behind his watch. When we got back to the Grid, Malcolm informed us that Adam and Jo had run off to track down Zakir Abdul, a member of Acts of Truth who was granted access to the prison by Mik Maudsley on the day the fire broke out. It appeared that they had killed their own men in order to keep their agendas hidden.

I watched Ruth head to Harry for what appeared to be the hundredth time that day and started to get suspicious. She wouldn't be discussing a personal issue – Ruth could hardly string a sentence together unless it was based on work. So, what were she and Harry talking about that none of the rest of us could hear?

Jo mentioned Harry and Ruth chit-chatting in the office and hid a tracker in the pocket of Ruth's coat, eager to know whether Harry's lift home would miraculously result in a candle-lit dinner. I tried to remember that Jo was still young and was just engaging in some harmless amusement, but in my personal opinion pranks are incongruous in a working environment, particularly in one as serious as ours. However, I couldn't deny that there was something oddly satisfying about watching the exact location of Harry and Ruth, and the uncertainty as to whether they would spend any longer in each other's company than necessary. I felt powerful, and judgemental... and it was also a little bit enjoyable. By the time Harry's car pulled away from Ruth's house I was almost disappointed that they hadn't opted for a date night, particularly as it would put an end to their awkward encounters in corridors and furtive little glances that the rest of us had to endure. I glanced up to check the tracker again and saw Ruth head back out of her house and down an unfamiliar route. It was a very odd move for her, and my curiosity got the better of me. Checking the address, I rolled my eyes when realising it belonged to Mik Maudsley.

Unwilling to let Ruth bloody Evershed cause any operational trouble, I hopped into my car and headed to the address. When I was about halfway there I realised I would probably need a partner in crime, not only to confirm that Ruth had in fact been there but to aid with any searching or investigating. Harry was a definite no, as was Adam – I was still seething with them following my father's imprisonment of twenty years instead of the practically-promised more lenient sentence. Jo wasn't my favourite operational partner either. I ended up calling Zaf, who I knew was devious enough to get away with a detour and lacked any annoying quality that would halt my finding out of Ruth's intentions.

Turns out I had misjudged Zaf's feelings – he was clearly devoted to Ruth. He told me to call Harry or Adam: I refused. He made it clear that he was uncomfortable with spying on her and I told him breezily not to, but he followed me into the house nonetheless. I don't think he trusted me to continue with this alone. Then again, he was of little help, accusing me of jumping to conclusions when I pointed out that Ruth had been acting suspiciously and could well be part of the crisis we were currently caught up in. Zaf headed off to track down Ruth whereas I headed back to the Grid to report my suspicions. Whether Ruth was guilty or not, her unacceptable operational conduct deserved investigation.

...

Oliver Mace is a man who I've never particularly held a liking for. His voice and his manner scream privilege, his condescending sneer potentially one of the most unpleasant sounds the human ear would ever have to experience. So, when it was Oliver Mace that I had to report my suspicions of Ruth to it didn't fill me with joy. He nodded and thanked me for my professionalism, but it was clear that he was suppressing a victorious dance in that he'd got one up on Harry Pearce And His Team. Mace gathered everyone together, ready for Ruth's arrival, and was evidently loving every second in the spotlight. Ruth looked petrified as he grilled her ruthlessly about her whereabouts. Harry looked like he might cry or punch Mace in the face. Zaf shot me a look of pure hatred when Mace mentioned 'someone' reporting Ruth's actions. I returned his look steadily – I would not apologise or feel guilty for doing my job properly, instead of favouring Section D's sickening 'we're all in this together' attitude. Individuals should never be placed above an operation in importance; start valuing the people more than the information and we'd never get anywhere. Letting personal feelings infect your rationality is a lethal mistake in espionage and one that I was not willing to commit.

Ruth was promptly frog-marched from the Grid, Harry actually bellowed at a guard and then Adam cornered me. His accusations that I was trying to 'strike back' at Harry following my father's imprisonment angered me – he assumed that I would be acting upon my own feelings rather than operational imperatives. I coolly told him that this whole affair had nothing to do with my father before stalking back to my desk indifferently. I loathed to admit that Adam had hit a nerve. Of course I wasn't inexperienced or foolish enough to want to get revenge on Harry after he hurt me, and it would be utterly unprofessional to do so through work. But I had gleaned a feeling of rather sadistic pleasure when I noted how Harry's face contorted in anger as Ruth was led away and then crumpled in despair when he trudged back into his office. I had made him feel something of what I was feeling – albeit inadvertently – and it was satisfying. Perhaps in the future he would consider my own emotions before senselessly disregarding them. I possess actual feelings, deep beneath the murky layers of sardonic disguise I shroud myself in, and it wouldn't hurt Harry to acknowledge that.

The Grid was buzzing with activity, but not the usual variety. Faceless goons had begun to dismantle our little livelihood, flicking through files and noting things with interest, rummaging in desk drawers, disturbing the fragile mound of secrets brushed under the bulging carpet of Thames House's sins. I happened to catch Jo's gaze and she looked distinctly uncomfortable. Adam approached her desk and discreetly whispered something, to which she nodded and made her way to the pods. He made his way to me.

"We're getting out of here. Meeting point seven."

He moved over to Zaf to deliver the same instruction. I wordlessly plucked my coat from the back of my chair and made my way to the pods.

...

I had learned upon my integration to the Section D team that we have several covert meeting places scattered across London in case of emergencies such as the one we were currently experiencing. I had memorised the locations of all of them, surprised at how many boltholes one team needed. Then again, with snoops like Oliver Mace on the scene it was to be expected that we'd need some breathing space now and again.

I encountered Jo at the bus stop and unfortunately she noticed me before I could turn away, beckoning me over. She didn't know for certain that I was the one to tell tales on Ruth, and if she did I was sure she wouldn't be so friendly.

When a bus finally ambled into place and we boarded she began telling me stories about previous times the team had used rendezvous points; I didn't know whether she was trying to interest me or distract herself but I was only half listening. The mention of Ruth's name snapped me back to attention, though - apparently rendezvous twelve (which I remembered to be a cafe nestled somewhere in Lambeth) had been used to plan Ruth's surprise birthday party earlier this year. Jo relayed the story with a certain sense of nostalgia. My colleague's sense of innocence and warmness was beginning to lace my own thoughts with glimmering beads of doubt and regret, and as the bus crawled through the traffic I began to question my judgement. What was more important – acting upon what I believed was right, or trying, for once, to look out for someone else? I knew I could be ruthlessly selfish; a trait I had absorbed not only from by upbringing but my solid stance that you couldn't think too much of other people when you live the life of a spy. But life in Section D may be professional and ruthless and often difficult, but there was a strong moral sense of looking out for your own that was hard to overlook. I might not be the friendliest face on the Grid, but I had been treated with respect from those who didn't wish to like me, and those who did were returning my sarky comments with a grin and, believe it or not, scratching the surface of my genuine affection. They could have cast me out, shut me from their association whenever necessary, and yet I was made cups of coffee and invited to birthday celebrations and even when I declined I would still get asked at the next opportunity. I might reject kindness on occasion, but that does not go to say that I do not appreciate its offer. Often I react in a way that is viewed as cruel or insensitive; this I was soon to demonstrate. The next time that Jo mentioned Ruth I felt so sick of the topic that I opened my mouth.

"Ruth's gone for now, Jo, and it'd do you a lot better by trying to move on, and me a lot better for not having to hear you witter on and on about her."

Jo opened her mouth a little in shock.

"And, just to confirm your suspicions, I was the one to inform Mace of Ruth's frankly unacceptable operational conduct, and I wouldn't hesitate to do so again."

The bus was thankfully slowing to a stop by this point and I promptly exited, despite being aware that I was about two stops away from where I actually needed to be. The pavements were relatively clear, seeing as the afternoon was slow and lazy and the clouds threatened to spill rain at any moment, and so my extended journey wouldn't be too time-consuming. I pulled my scarf tighter around my neck as protection from the chill of the crisp air and marched to the rendezvous point. I was the last to arrive, but it appeared that I had missed little. Everyone looked miserable and freezing, and the addition of my company didn't seem to help matters.

After being told that I was to impersonate Ruth for the next couple of hours, I feigned disinterest but internally felt a little grateful. This would be my chance at a little redemption, although my current relationships with team members were strained to say the least. Malcolm hadn't even glanced in my direction, for which I could hardly blame him – I held some of the blame for the loss of Colin and now potentially for Ruth as well. He was a good man, I could tell, and to see him hurting as a result of my actions wasn't pleasant. Harry still looked distressed but he probably hated himself more than me right now. Adam was his ever-efficient self and was task delegating rather than indulging in personal feelings, and I felt a surge of relief for his behaviour. Jo and Zaf appeared to be the most wounded at present. I knew my words on the bus had been too acerbic for Jo's good grace to take and I should probably make some form of light apology sooner or later. Zaf, on the other hand, looked furious with me. I assume that he and Jo were particularly close to Ruth and had been for some time, but his easy-going nature wasn't easily replaced with cold-hearted hatred. As much as I loathed admitting any form of affection it was true that I rather enjoyed Zaf's company on a personal and professional level and so seeing him view me with such abhorrence made me feel distinctly uncomfortable. As the team dispersed and began to make their ways towards their next destinations, I walked briskly to catch up with Zaf's form.

"How good is your contact at the Russian Embassy?" I asked, deciding it wiser to start the conversation on a work-related note.

"Better than most," came the cold reply as he continued to walk at a pace I struggled to keep up with, worsened by the fact that I was yet to adjust to the heeled boots I purchased for Havensworth.

"We'll sort this out," I told him efficiently.

He stopped walking and spun on his heel to face me. "If you hadn't jumped to conclusions there wouldn't be anything to sort."

"Someone would have found out about Ruth pursuing the Maudsley case sooner or later," I tried to defend myself.

"And they would have dealt with it more sensitively than you did," he told me bitterly, his gaze fixed on my face.

"Yes, but it's not about sensitivity, is it? Sensitivity gets you nowhere in this line of work. I get that you lot have this absolute loyalty to Ruth and it's heart-warming, really-"

"This isn't about you, Ros!" Zaf shouted, and I was shocked enough at his outburst to cease talking. "I get it that you don't do friends because we'll all end up dead or you're just so professional or whatever ridiculous notion you've got for being a bitch to everyone, but that doesn't mean you can inflict your way of doing things on the rest of us. Why don't you just think of what's best for the team as a whole and not your selfish little game of one-upmanship and trying to avenge whoever looks at you in the wrong way. It's all bigger than just what you think."

"And it's all bigger than just Ruth, too," I snapped back at him.

"Operationally, it is. But your accusation of her wasn't justified. She wasn't threatening anyone, or deliberately trying to do harm. She was following what she thought was a lead, and Ruth's usually right about these things-"

"And evidently she wasn't in this scenario, so I was right to report my suspicions," I concluded ruthlessly.

Zaf shook his head in defeat. "We'll never know what Ruth was trying to find, thanks to you. Now unless we sort this out, Maudsley will have died for nothing and the fire at Cotterdam will never get an explanation. Those are your operational imperatives, Ros. The ones that Ruth was trying to find answers to. She got lost on the way but at least she kept those imperatives in sight. You're just acting on personal dislike. The rest of us trust Ruth indefinitely, and your pet theories aren't going to change that."

"Don't be so bloody impressionable, Zaf," I spat in exasperation – his tone was annoying me, but I couldn't dispute that I understood what he was saying. I finally acknowledged that there was some truth in saying that my stubbornness to prove myself and my fury at Harry had fuelled some of my desire to report Ruth. "If we do sort this out, then Ruth goes free and gets a deserved slap on the wrist."

"Deserved?!" Zaf questioned in disbelief, his voice venomous.

"She won't conduct her operations with such a lackadaisical attitude in the future," I told him.

"Don't be so bloody naive, Ros," Zaf retorted, mockingly returning my previous words. "The operation goes deeper than this. Ruth understood that. Why does the Special Branch report conclude that the fire was an accident? Was it really just a coincidence that Mik met Ruth seconds before throwing himself in front of a train?"

"Sometimes not every question gets an answer," I tried.

"Sure. But especially if you're not willing to look past your own stubbornness to get that answer," he told me, choosing this moment to pace away. I considered calling out a retort but bit my tongue before doing so. I had wished to patch things up between us but evidently that hadn't worked out.

His words were weighing on my mind, as much as I wished they wouldn't. It's easy enough to lie to someone else, but deceiving yourself is an altogether more difficult task.

...


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: This took a little longer than I hoped to finish – apologies for the wait. I hope you enjoy this final chapter and as ever I would be very grateful if you left a review!**

Breaking into Ruth's house was relatively simple, due to the fact that I have the relevant experience in the matter and because her home is old-fashioned enough to not be embellished with complicated alarms or particularly safe doors and windows. I considered telling her that it would probably be wise to update her security but then decided to focus on the operation at hand instead, trading her coat for mine and ushering her out the way I'd come in to go and meet Adam. I knew I'd probably be there for several hours and so I soon made myself comfortable on the sofa after drifting ominously past the window to give the watchers something to observe. I assumed they must be either short-sighted or inattentive in not noticing that my appearance is the polar opposite to Ruth's, but either way I was glad that they didn't suspect anything. I located the television remote and switched on the news, eager to distract my mind.

After several relatively low-key news bulletins, two cups of coffee (which I had made with Ruth's seemingly-abandoned pot of coffee granules which didn't appear to be of any admirable standard) and an old re-run of Bargain Hunt, my ringing phone thankfully provided an interruption from the tedium of what I could only assume was normal life for the majority of the population. It was Zaf: he told me it was time to get myself arrested. It seemed like the most pleasing news I had heard all day.

I quickly washed up the mug and spoon I had used for the coffee and stacked them back where I had found them before donning a hat and trotting outside, making the watchers finally put down their newspapers and takeaway coffee cups and take notice. I'd barely made it down the street before I was cornered by armed police - they were obviously het up about Ruth's security considering the sheer mass of officers present and the detailed, efficient way in which I was bundled into the car and driven to the station. When they realised their mistake there was an explosion of confusion and outrage, amongst which I was offered profuse apologies and released back onto the streets with a tiny smirk on my face.

My good deed complete, it was time to return to the Grid.

...

The Grid was oddly still. The hustle and bustle of urgent business had vanished, replaced by a weary and suffocating pace as the odd analyst bumbled into the kitchen for a cuppa or someone checked their emails. The rest of the team was absent, although Malcolm might well have been squirreled away in the forgery suite. I considered making myself a coffee and taking one to him but I wasn't really in the mood for conversation; he would also probably be keen to avoid me seeing as we were of completely opposite personalities. I was quite content with having nothing to do with him.

Then he plunked a mug of black coffee on my desk and awkwardly stuffed his hands in his pockets.

I looked up. "Thank you, Malcolm," I said woodenly, wanting to sound grateful but unable to summon sufficient warmth in my voice.

"You're welcome," he said quietly. I took a sip and then he blurted out: "Why did you do it, Ros?"

"Do what?" I asked, despite knowing exactly what he meant.

"Ruth didn't mean to cause any harm. I think we both know that," Malcolm said, perching hesitantly on the edge of my desk. "I hope she doesn't end up having to leave, because of... this."

"I wanted to sort out the enigma behind Cotterdam, and Maudsley. I feel like I haven't proved myself yet," I blurted, before feeling instantly regretful: it was the most honest I had ever been since joining the team. Perhaps it was because I knew Malcolm was kind enough not to snigger behind my back, and fearful enough of me to not speak out of line.

"It usually runs more smoothly when we work as a team," he reminded me gently. "I'm sorry if you haven't felt welcome here, Ros. But if you have concerns you can talk to Harry. As bosses go, he's very fair and will pull out all the stops to protect one of his own."

His words were poisonous considering Harry's failure to help my father but I suddenly felt too tired to snap someone's head off. Instead, I said "Give me an example."

Malcolm look startled. "Erm..." he started. "There was a young lady who worked here a few years ago. An operation went horribly wrong and she had to take the blame. She was sentenced to ten years in prison. Harry got her a new identity so she could still live her life with her soon-to-be husband abroad."

"Harry did that?" I asked in disbelief.

Malcolm smiled. "She was one of us. There's nothing he wouldn't do to try and protect one of his team."

"Then how come he didn't-"I began, but promptly stopped. My father wasn't one of Harry's officers. He was a traitor. It seemed so easy to digest when it was spelled out like that, free of all of my emotional attachments. Cold, rational logic is the best solution to utilise and I had been foolish to forget it.

I gulped down some more of the coffee. "You're quite a good counsellor, Malcolm."

He blushed slightly. "Well, thank you Ros. Glad to be of help." He offered a shy smile and scarpered back to his den of gadgets.

I noted with surprise that since arriving back from my arrest just after five in the afternoon, it was now almost eleven. I decided to head off, realising I'd had nothing to eat since breakfast. I soon located a fairly crummy cafe around the corner and took my portion of chips and takeaway Diet Coke down to the Thames to eat uninterestedly in front of the view. Neither drink nor dinner were particularly spectacular in taste but I realised I'd have to please my stomach in order not to collapse or starve in the next few hours. I wandered around in the dark streets for a while afterwards, hoping that the cold breeze would help to clear my head and refresh my senses. It had little effect. It was out of the ordinary for the team to have broken up and my mind struggled to figure out something to do in the meantime. It hadn't even occurred to me to go home to bed – the tiredness I was feeling wasn't one that could be remedied by sleeping – and so I walked for at least two hours before returning to the central heated bliss of Thames House.

...

The rest of the team trickled back to the Grid at various intervals during the small hours of the morning and I became aware of the events that had unfolded the previous day. Adam and Ruth had discovered the genuine drop that Maudsley had left which confirmed the operation to remove the seven terror suspects from Cotterdam prison so that Mace and his morally-incapable cronies could inflict 'special interrogation measures'. The report included an unnamed member of Section D in the list of people present at the meeting as an insurance policy in the hope that we wouldn't reveal the true fate of the suspects in order to cover our own backs. Harry had attacked Mace and got himself arrested to try and cover for Ruth, who was unwilling to let him take the blame for her. Together with Adam and Zaf, Ruth fabricated a plan: she was to be the officer that knew of the whereabouts of those seven men. Thanks to some skilled photoshopping, Ruth was 'proved' to be Mace's associate and had now gone AWOL in order for her to flee undetected.

It was an elaborate and dangerous scheme, but I had to admit I felt some small form of admiration for Ruth. Standing up to men like Oliver Mace would never be easy but she was more than willing to give it a try to defend the basic human rights that he had so flippantly overlooked. Her insistence that men like Mace should not be able to intimidate and torture was just a small example of her strong moral code; her insistence that Harry couldn't be the one to take the blame demonstrated her unyielding loyalty.

Harry had shut himself in his office with his head in his hands, staring at the phone as if willing it to ring. Adam had been delivering hot drinks, asking me in an off-handed manner to which I replied in the negative anyway, having already re-filled my mug before he arrived. Jo was tidying her desk so meticulously as if focussing on anything else would make her break. Zaf was tapping aimlessly at keys on his computer, presumably replying to emails or playing solitaire or just pretending to be doing something rather than entertaining the agonising wait. He had arrived hours later than the rest, having stayed with Ruth down at the docks until dawn broke over the city. I had asked him where Ruth was to try and show that I was actually interested in the matter but he bluntly refused to tell me, even spinning the yarn that she'd 'gone off our radar' even though he must have known I would never believe it. I tried to express that I hoped she was well covered and joked that she would need a broomstick to escape the inevitable witch-hunt that would ensue from her disappearance. My comment was a little facetious to mask my serious concern for her safety, but Zaf didn't even crack a smirk.

I was glad when the moment everyone was waiting for suddenly occurred: Harry's phone erupted to life. He took the call quickly and marched from his office, Adam in tow. I realised that this would be their last chance to say goodbye to Ruth, whereas the rest of us had no such opportunity available. For a fleeting second I wish I had chosen better words during our brief exchange at her house. I had told her that I never apologise, which is true. Perhaps I could have offered reassurance or goodwill wishes, but these qualities don't come naturally to me and even if I put on a convincing front Ruth probably wouldn't believe that I sincerely cared anyway.

I thought she'd get a reprimand and would stop trying to save the day by herself and let the team cooperate on the operation. I'd get some steely glares (which I was used to anyway) and we'd all keep calm and carry on regardless. Only now do I realise that the consequences will be far more severe, and I hate how naive I may have been in trying to run rings around men like Mace who have real power compared to our lowly status of civil servants.

Uncomfortable with the train of thoughts beginning to swamp me, I cornered Jo at her desk. My words on the bus had been too harsh and I couldn't quite get the image out of my head of the way her face crumpled at my remarks about Ruth. "I shouldn't have spoken to you like that, Jo."

My voice isn't naturally reassuring. I've always sounded bossy and authoritative, which worked well when directing incompetent classmates in a group presentation or conversing confidently with senior officials. But my counselling skills are undoubtedly patchy - the words sounded clunky and wooden despite my sincerity.

"Don't apologise," she told me. I couldn't tell if she was too bitter to bother talking to me or if she genuinely accepted my display of remorse. "But you should apologise to Harry."

Her response shouldn't have surprised me, but it did. That she had the audacity to suggest to me that I should apologise to my boss? Was she so nosy that she thought it appropriate to try and patch things up in my personal life? Did she think I valued her opinion on the matter that had nothing to do with her?

Then I surprised myself. "I'll try."

Jo almost dropped her mug of tea in her lap.

I chose that moment to make my way back to my desk. I didn't want to have to explain myself to her, but I was beginning to realise that maybe it was about time that the colleague-boss relationship got restored. Not only would it make working together more efficient and professional, but I was beginning to remember that Harry was the man with the impeccably polite front who would bend orders behind the scenes and stand up for his own. The experienced officer to whom death and destruction still caused a sizzling pain, rather than the snooty officials to whom death was unfortunate but nothing more.

Forgiving Harry would be no easy task. But one thing was becoming glaringly apparent: he'd never intended to hurt me.

But I had intended to hurt him.

Turns out forgiving myself would be no easy task either.

...

I tried to compose what I would say to Harry upon his return to the Grid but found it incredibly difficult to do so. I have a habit of speaking my mind and holding my tongue is a skill I've never learned, yet alone had time to perfect. I wasn't willing to run the risk of writing something down lest a colleague got hold of it and had a good giggle – a substantial portion of my dignity was not something that I was willing to sacrifice.

Harry was coming back onto the Grid before I knew it and despite feeling uneasiness for the first time in a very long time I bullied myself into getting to my feet. I saw him pick up the phone through the glass of his office. He froze. He blinked rapidly.

Adam came onto the Grid soon after and clocked Harry's expression, heading immediately to his office. I disguised my sudden standing up as an attempt to stretch my legs before sinking back down into my seat, discreetly watching the two of them. Spies have to be experts on body language; a handy skill for surveillance and reading your assets. Harry was running a hand across his face before his inborn efficiency kicked in and his hands hurried over the keyboard of his computer, his eyebrows knitting together. Adam stood with his arms crossed, pacing slowly in anticipation. Harry finished with the computer and rose to his feet, giving instructions to which Adam nodded with a nod. Harry made his way to the door and Adam stopped him to offer a brief word. I made out 'thank you' on Harry's lips before he paced back past and into the pods, only making eye contact with the floor.

Adam came out to deliver the news: Harry had received intelligence from our man in Beirut that his daughter, Catherine, had been badly injured in a bomb blast. Harry was on the next flight to Lebanon to try and find her, but the authorities were unsure of where she was being treated.

The team were visibly shocked. Adam told us that the best thing we could do was finish tying up the loose ends of our Cotterdam operation and stay focussed. He was slightly reassuring but visibly exhausted.

Adam crashed down on his desk and began talking with Malcolm, both of them looking worse for wear. Zaf sat on Jo's desk and they were whispering in low tones, Jo looking visibly shaken and Zaf adopting his role as confidant.

I think one of the reasons that the portrayal of espionage is anathema to me is because you only ever see two sides of a spy. The slick, sophisticated, unrealistically good looking super-humans who have ridiculous gadgets and make killing look attractive. Or the incompetent Security Services who aren't pulling their weight, who are allowing terrorism on British soil, who misread intelligence. No-one really sees the other side unless they're living it. Spies get broken and killed; trodden on and forgotten. We are humans who are portrayed to be machines. As I watched Adam slouch in his chair I saw the embodiment of brokenness due to a grief that he hasn't had time to recover from. When Malcolm rubbed a hand across his forehead I saw a man who is all too familiar with tragedies. Zaf blinked sleepily and I remembered how he'd been awake for nearly two days and can't physically cope with any more exhaustion. I saw the smudges of mascara on Jo's face and saw someone so young trying to deal with the intolerable pain of losing people she cares about.

I thought of myself and saw someone who suppresses any sign of weakness for the sake of her career; for the sake of not being made to feel as if she isn't good enough.

Ruth is on a boat to a foreign country where she will have to rebuild her life. She has had to leave everything she knows behind for the sake of standing up to men like Mace who belittle and torture, hiding behind a mask of untouchable authority. Her absence on the Grid was going to be sorely felt. She was the beating heart of morality, combining goodness with intelligence and warmth. These qualities may not appeal to me personally but they certainly formed solid friendships with many others that she encountered.

Her and I were never going to be best friends. I think she is too good, irritatingly shy and unable to express how she feels. She probably thinks I am partly evil, too blunt and too cold.

I guess we never got the entire truth about each other, and I realised it too late.

Well, not entirely too late.

She'd left a part of her behind.

...

"Harry!" I practically yelled, pacing out of Thames House and wincing when I felt the rain pelting down from the sky.

Harry turned around, his guard holding an umbrella above both of their heads.

"Go back inside, Ros," he called to me, opening the door of his waiting car.

"Wait," I ordered, marching closer. "I just wanted to-"

_Spit it out, Rosalind._ My teeth were chattering and the rain was falling more frequently now and yet my mind had frozen when faced with an apology.

"I'll be more professional in future," were the words I chose to tell him, because 'I'm sorry' felt too obvious and emotional, and only now had I realised that my innate professionalism had been smothered by my too-often suppressed emotion. It had been inappropriate to report Ruth, and I was regretful that as a repercussion the team were hurting. An apology wouldn't do any good as there was nothing left to be done, but a promise could be counted on.

Harry was ever the enigmatic, nodding and saying "I'd better be off, Ros," as he clambered into the car.

"I hope you find her," I called, suddenly pitying Harry and his potentially futile search for his injured daughter. This fresh tragedy would feel even bitterer as it came so quickly after Ruth's departure, leaving him hardly any time to control the many ugly thoughts that were undoubtedly crashing through his head. I was responsible for some of his grief and the least I could do was offer my support. "If there's anything I can do, just ask."

Harry nodded, and the car pulled away from the kerb, kicking up puddles. I hurried back into Thames House, running a hand through my rain-soaked hair.

I would be better than this in the future. I would not remove my mask of cold indifference; my shield, my coping mechanism. But I would consider what is best for my colleagues, my team, my friends. Espionage is a ruthless pursuit, one that often requires unthinkable atrocities to be exercised or endured. I could make its taste a little less bitter by letting go of some of my want for revenge, and trying to appreciate my fellow officers and work and country a bit more.

Cold, rational logic. Professionalism over personal feeling. Confidence to cover fear and wit to liven banalities. Duty to my colleagues and my country.

These were the aspects I would strive to pin down and carry for the rest of my career at MI5, and attempt not to taint with my future actions.

For now, I headed to my locker, drying my hair with the towel stashed inside and marching back to the Grid. I offered to make the next round of coffee. It was a simple gesture, but all accepted my offer.

And, slowly but surely, they began to accept me. Partly because of the innate goodness in each team member of Section D, but also because I made a conscious effort. During our next operation I made sure to smile at Jo and assist Malcolm with planting bugs; not piss off Adam or Harry; rebuff Zaf's flirting with scathing comments.

That's what you do when you're in a team, and I don't have to be the outsider any more.

...


End file.
